


Bodycheck

by Rori_Teagan



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 11:12:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3325403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rori_Teagan/pseuds/Rori_Teagan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not revenge, it's a reminder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bodycheck

It wasn’t revenge. Let’s get that straight, right now. And it wasn’t some fucked up self-sacrificing martyr shit masquerading as assholeness masquerading as repressed fucking fear masquerading as whatever other psychobabble bullshit title you want to throw out there.

 

Brian Kinney doesn’t do that. He doesn’t have to. Justin Taylor isn’t some blond little boy with all his brains in his ass and cock, he doesn’t need someone to manipulate him into living a life that’s “better” for him. And even if he did need someone to point it out, shove him in the right direction, blindfold him and work each of his limbs until he caught on and mimicked himself… I still wouldn’t do it. Who the fuck am I to blindside him into living a life of my choosing? Who the fuck is anyone? Just like I told his control freak of a father, that’s not love, that’s hate. I didn’t do it when he was one foot in the past, one foot in the present, afraid to be touched and still screaming bloody murder every night from nightmares of what was almost his bloody murder. I didn’t do it when he was the most vulnerable and wanted, fucking begged me to tell him what to do, and I won’t do it now.

 

I won’t fucking disrespect him like that.

 

Debbie and Lindsay, with their Dr. Phil wannabe selves, can think whatever they fucking want. It wasn’t done out of some misguided notion of “his own good”.

 

It wasn’t irony, it wasn’t agony, and it sure as hell wasn’t destiny fulfilled.

 

What it was, was a bodycheck. Like every good little jock boy learns before the age of ten no matter what sport he plays. You get too into the motions of the game, you forget yourself, someone will bring you out of it. Full force, full throttle, full physical, legs ripped out from underneath you to the floor, bodycheck. It was a reminder. It was a friendly neighborhood singing goddamned telegram from me to him saying, “Mind your fucking manners.”

 

I’m not so sure he got it though.

 

Or if he did, I guess you could read his response as “fuck my manners, and fuck the game.”

 

Fine. He’s entitled that. Hell, I was entitled the same at any time. He knew what he was getting into when it started. And to be perfectly honest, so did I. That’s really the only way you can never regret anything, by knowing what you’re getting into before you…get into it.

 

We both went in eyes wide open. Too bad little Sunshine had to go and get them all surgically reconstructed, doused with stardust and dew. 

 

So Justin fell in love with the idea of love, I fucked the actor hired to play a 2-d comically enhanced characterized version of myself. He left, I’ve returned to a more literal definition of the word single. Shit happens, and life goes on.

 

People need to stop making it more than it fucking was. Interlude over, Go the fuck home. Shit.


End file.
